Life After Death
by SourCherryBlossom
Summary: Multi-chapter. Sequel to "The Letter", set in the AU created in this work. Rated M for smut, language and intense, adult situations.
1. Chapter 1

In the kitchen, Maggie was putting the finishing touches on a large pot of corned beef and cabbage. Carrie stood by, leaning idly on the counter, observing the taste testing process.

"Gah," Carrie said. "I can't believe how much he likes this stuff."

Maggie sampled a last mouthful right off the end of the wooden spoon, nodding in approval. As soon as she swallowed, she said, "Mmmm. Of course. He's Irish."

"I know, but still. I never thought of him as anything. Only once can I remember him saying he liked Indian food," Carrie complained. Quinn had never showed preferences, or volunteered anything. He had really been all business. But, that was before.

Carrie raised herself up with her hands to sit on the kitchen counter. She said, more softly, "Quinn and I worked together for two years, you know? We went through all kinds of shit. By the time we went to Islamabad, I trusted him completely. I didn't want to work over there without him. He protected me, even when I was too blind to see it. But he was always so, I don't know. Private," she said finally.

"You guys," Maggie said, quietly, "Had a difficult start together. But it worked out. Reach behind you and pass me the garlic powder."

Carrie did so, contemplating the incredible ride that brought her to this situation. It was March, now going into Spring, and it had been 7 weeks since Quinn had effectively come back from the dead. A miscommunication on a busted Black Op had caused Quinn's farewell letter to be delivered to Carrie, and after six months of watchfully waiting and hoping that he would return, receiving this letter nearly killed her with grief. But about a month later, he had come pulling into the driveway, darkly tanned, thin as a rail, and tapped on the glass of the front door, startling Maggie half to death. Since his return, he had begun processing out of the special ops group, and in light of his uncertain life circumstances, had been staying with Maggie and Carrie. Maggie, delighted for her sister's happiness, and glad to encourage the two to enjoy what was essentially a honeymoon after all their suffering, had been eager to facilitate their companionship. And honestly, he was nice to have around.

Carrie shook her head. "It's bizarre,' she sighed. "I'm finding out so many things that I didn't know. I think it's the first time in his life that Quinn's been contented enough, trusted anyone enough, to share anything."

"There's a reason for that," Maggie said, wisely. Her gossip pump had been primed, though, and she couldn't resist asking lightly, "So, what have you learned?" She rolled her head and gave Carrie a significant look.

"Well," Carrie said, smiling secretively. "I knew he was intelligent. It's obvious. But, when he was in 9th grade at Hill School, he scored a 175 on an I.Q. test."

Maggie let out a low whistle. "Wow. Is that verifiable?"

Carrie snorted. "I'm sure it is," she said. "In spite of his expensive education, I don't think he had a particularly happy childhood." Carrie shook her head. "He won't talk about it much," she finished, softly.

"Hm," Maggie considered, hoping her quiet would draw out more information.

"Here's something," Carrie said, "When Quinn was a freshman in college, he got busted for drag-racing a cop. _On a motorcycle_," she said. Maggie gave Carrie the raised-eyebrow look that seems to be a specialty of mothers. "I don't think he'd do that anymore," she said, hurriedly.

"What the heck would he want to do something like that for?" Maggie asked. "Was he trying to impress a girl?"

Carrie gave a half-smile. "I don't think he needed to try that hard," she said. She jumped down from the counter, got out a couple of wine glasses, and poured herself some Pinot Grigio. "You?" she asked Maggie, holding up the bottle. Maggie nodded.

"Oh, another tidbit. I'm sure I told you that he studied at Harvard. But did I tell you _what_ he studied?" Carrie paused for emphasis, and then said the words very deliberately, "_English. Literature."_ She set Maggie's wine glass next to the stove, and turned to stand next to her.

"Hah!" Maggie crowed. "I love it! Now wait, English like God-Save-the-Queen, or English like the language?"

"Like the language," Carrie said, sipping at her wine. "He says he likes F. Scott Fitzgerald. And Joseph Conrad."

"Heart of Darkness, huh." Maggie said, smiling.

Carrie stared out the kitchen window, a warm smile lighting up her face. "It figures, right? He's interesting," she said. "And everything I find out makes me want to find out more," If you consider the weapons specialty and the general bad-ass qualities that Quinn personified, it was hard to think of anyone she'd like better.

Maggie peeked at Carrie's face out of the corner of her eye, observed how naturally flushed her cheeks were. "_Fuck-me pink_," Maggie thought, repressing a giggle. What a relief, that for the most part, things were looking up. And that her young man was turning out not to be just someone she was madly in love with, but a decent and clever person as well. In their home, he was gentle and quiet, a deep well of secrets, but obviously madly in love with Carrie.

Carrie set her wine on the table. "I'm gonna check on Fran, she's napping too long. I don't want her up until ten P.M. again," she said.

Low and suggestive, Maggie's voice followed her down the hallway, "I'm sure you don't. Grownups bedtime, eh?"

"Stop," Carrie said, over her shoulder, grinning.

Carrie and Quinn finally had time to spend, time that wasn't dedicated to travel, diplomacy, or spycraft. They found they had some common interests, about which they'd never known. Carrie and Quinn both were fond of jazz, and as she had suspected, and he loved going through her father's LP collection and setting up stacks of records on the old turntable. With the kids in bed, Maggie would say goodnight, and leave Peter to douse the lights and pull Carrie into his arms. A quiet dance to soft music, her head on his chest, his hands pressing her to him. She would press her hands into his waist, and lean into him, drinking in his smell, his warmth. At those times, their long ordeal seemed distant, and the pleasure of the moment so great, that they couldn't find any words at all.

He was also sweet and playful with Franny, who adored him, because he seemed to have infinite patience for making hand puppets talk. I guess that doesn't go on many assassins' resumes, she thought, but the man made a damn good babysitter. As Quinn would stack blocks for the child, or read to her from her board books, Carrie grinned to herself, delighted with his eagerness to please the little girl. His openness, smiles, and frank delight to be with them all was touching.

In the night, of course, Carrie and Quinn indulged their hunger for each other in any way that came to mind. Twice daily, if not oftener. He seemed to have a bottomless well of desire for her, ready whenever she reached for him. He was uninhibited, accepting, and no act or desire was unthinkable or offensive to him. In the first month he was home, Carrie and Quinn probably tried every position known to man, in every room in the house. Their biggest challenge, in the bustling household, was finding privacy. One afternoon, Carrie came home from work to find Quinn changing the indoor lock on the bathroom next to their room, from a push-button "idiot lock" to a new doorknob that had actual lock with a key. Kneeling on the floor with the screwdriver, his hair pushed back into spikes, he was as smoking hot as any man alive, she thought, melting. He gave her an impudent grin when she asked his purpose.

"In that fucking desert, one of the things I thought about every night was bathing with you. And I don't think we need any kids busting in, do we, Carrie?" he asked, suggestively. He ran a hand up the inside of her thigh, for emphasis.

Those were the good times.

But as she had predicted on the park bench the day he returned, things weren't all wine and roses. They were both fucked up. It was just something they'd have to work through. Thank God, Carrie thought, he's with someone who knows his shit.


	2. Chapter 2

There were demons from Quinn's past that needed to be exorcised, God knew that. She wasn't sure how much Maggie knew about those bad nights. The ones filled with turgid nightmares that brought Quinn awake, moaning, covered in a sheen of sweat. She would turn on a dim light, and pull him into her arms, stroking his back, his cheek, whispering words of comfort. "You're at Maggie's house. It's Carrie, you're with me. You're in my bed. It's February 2015. Remember? I love you." She would go on until his consciousness unfroze, and allowed him to see and hear for himself. Watching him suffer was agonizing for her. It made her wonder what he had done during all the years prior. Just lay there miserable? Cry? Get up and drink?

On one of these occasions, he lay in her arms, listening to her quiet litany of loving reminders, body stiff as a steel cable, almost vibrating with contained angst. For some reason, on hearing her words, he became so fiercely aroused that he turned Carrie onto her back, tore off her panties, and entered her immediately. He began pounding hard, moaning at every thrust. He pinned her wrists back next to her ears with a grip so tight that he bruised her. "Quinn!" she squealed, taken aback. He hadn't stopped, but moaned in her ear, "I can never love you enough, I can never love you enough," kissing her neck and mouth with violent passion. Under his powerful assault, she gave herself over to Quinn's desperate lovemaking, hoping to dispel his demons simply by loving him back. After he climaxed, he broke into harsh sobs, burying his face in Carrie's belly, continuing until he was drained, finally quieting as she stroked his hair. Then, spent, he collapsed into sleep in her arms again. "Carrie," he murmured, as he faded off, as if her name was his only connection to reality, to sanity, to peace.

The next morning, he had apologized, literally on his knees. "I'm so sorry," he said, voice thick with tears, his hands on her knees as he knelt before her, next to the bed. "I don't know what I was dreaming about. I lost my mind. Did I hurt you?" he said, wretchedly. He kissed the bruises on her wrists.

"Stop," she said, her throat filling with tears, "I love you. You can have me any time you want me," she said. He had taken her up on that, which had brought that strange episode to a close. But the source of the dreams - the six months he spent in Syria, and so many other missions – these things were still mysteries to her. She wondered if he'd ever open that door, and let her in, at the same time, fearing what she might hear.

Quinn was also encountering the practical difficulties of adjusting to what they always jokingly referred to as "normal life". But it wasn't a joke. There were tasks for Quinn to do, in order to process out of the C.I.A., but they weren't terribly involving or time consuming. And after that, he was looking at a period of time with no job at all, while he decided what his next move was. Carrie and Maggie and Quinn talked about it almost every evening, trying out ideas, discussing career paths, ranging from the reasonable (martial arts trainer) to the ludicrous (kindergarten teacher). There were some good discussions around the dinner table, or while wiping dishes (which Quinn did at every opportunity and seemed to enjoy). But as yet, nothing had clicked for him.

He whispered to Carrie at night, in bed, during his less confident moments, that he felt adrift. "And when I used to feel adrift," he said, scaring her, "I used to sign up for jobs. Or drink." Carrie had kissed his forehead, and said, "I have another activity for you. Keep you out of trouble." He had grinned, and kissed her softly. Unfortunately for Quinn, they couldn't make love all the time.

Three weeks after moving his bag into Carrie's room, the absence of a job, a mission, an objective, seemed to create a vacuum in Quinn's mind that he had no idea how to fill. And into the vacuum poured the dark memories of jobs in Caracas, Islamabad, Syria, Iraq. Even her love was not enough to keep him from being subsumed in the depths of these recollections, and they stung at him, like so many bees.

On one night that winter, Quinn had overindulged in whiskey at the dinner table, causing Maggie to raise her eyebrows. It was unusual behavior for him, as far as she could see. Maggie had never seen Quinn out of control in any way.

After dinner, he pushed back his chair, and announced he was going out for a walk. "In February?" Carrie said, in disbelief. Carrie and Maggie looked at each other worriedly as he pulled on his leather jacket and pushed out the front door, listing to the left like an old Spanish galleon. He had a glassy look in his eyes that Carrie did not care for at all.

"I'm going to follow him," Carrie said anxiously. Maggie nodded, and Carrie grabbed her overcoat, phone, and wallet. Stepping out the front door of the house, she saw his truck in the drive – but Quinn was gone.

"Shit!" Carrie spat. Fucking black ops training! Where the fuck could he have gone so quickly? It was like a disappearing act. At least he didn't get behind the wheel, she thought.

She yelled his name, walking down the city streets. Jesus Christ, she thought, people are going to think I lost a dog. "Quinn!" she shrieked. But he was nowhere to be found. Where the hell would he go? It was freezing outside.

She walked through the adjoining neighborhood, checked the playground behind the Catholic School. No Quinn. Then she headed to the small convenience store on the corner. She asked the seedy-looking gray-haired clerk behind the counter if he'd seen a man of a certain description. She held up her iPhone, a recent picture of Quinn on the screen.

"Are you a cop?" the clerk asked suspiciously.

"Yes. No. Actually, I'm his… girlfriend," she said, flustered.

The clerk chortled. "Four Roses," he said.

"Can you be more clear?" Carrie inquired sharply.

"He bought a pint of Four Roses. Said he was going to the park, wait for his honey-pie." A dirty smile lit the clerk's face, as he waited to see if he'd just informed Carrie that Quinn was cheating. Hoping for a big meltdown. Fucking asshole.

"Oh, that's right," Carrie said, putting the heel of her hand to her forehead. "I forgot it was threesome night. Do you sell KY? Or any kind of lube, really?"

She left the clerk with his mouth hanging open, turned on her bootheel, and banged out the door.

Back in the park, Carrie called his name again, her breath clouding white mist into the frosty air. "Quinn! Where the fuck _are_ you?" she shouted, beginning to feel desperate. She moved as quickly as possible through the large municipal park. There was a lot of ground to cover. She was heading for the bench that she and Billy always met at, by the toddler playground. Coming out of a copse of trees, she saw the bench. And sure enough, there on the bench lay Quinn, head pillowed on his arm, the empty bottle on the ground next to him. His breath plumed out slowly into the frigid air, and the tips of his fingers had already turned bluish with cold.

She walked up to him, squatted down. "Quinn," she said urgently. "Wake up, let's go home. You're going to freeze out here."

Quinn didn't open his eyes. "Don't have a home," he muttered.

She shook him. "Come on, sit up," she said. "You can lean on me."

He sat up and opened his eyes, which were bleary and bloodshot. His breath was lethal with alcohol. She was starting to worry about alcohol poisoning, when his eyes seemed to come into better focus on her face.

He said, "You. You came."

She looked at him, sick with concern, and said, "Of course I came. Now come home, it's cold."

She was standing in front of him, about to call Maggie, maybe to ask her to bring the truck, when Quinn leaned forward, put his arms around her midsection, buried his face in her coat.

"I love you. I thought I lost you." he mumbled. Then, miserably, he looked up at her, and said, "Please help me."

Such terrible pain he must be suffering, to behave this way, she knew. Carrie knew she wasn't speaking to a rational person, even without the booze. She knew all about breaks with reality, about mental illness, both chronic and curable. About PTSD and the way people tried to numb it. She knew he would feel better. It would just take time. Maybe time and medication, she thought. She stroked Quinn's head, thinking, he couldn't have fallen in love with a more suitable nut job.

"I know your shit, Quinn," she said. "And I am not leaving you. I love you. Now stand up and fucking walk, so we can get home and warm up."

Something about her tone broke his self-pitying trance. His empty searching look became a little better focused, and he stood up. Arms around each other, they stumbled home in the winter dark.

That night, Quinn slept for 13 hours, waking only when Franny came in and whapped him in the face with a stuffed toy.

"What? Oh. Hey, little girl. I guess I had that coming."

Carrie, standing in the mirror and fastening an earring, said, "Yeah, you did," irritably.

Sheepishly, Quinn said, "What did I do? I think I can guess, based on the way my head hurts."

Carrie rounded on him. "Well, first, you got shitfaced. Then you walked out of the house and bought more booze."

"I remember that part," he said vaguely.

"Then, you drank it all sitting on a park bench, and tried to go to sleep outside," Carrie said.

"Oooh. Yikes." He fell back on the bed, pulled the covers over his head. Carrie yanked them back off.

She sat down on the edge of the bed. Quinn braced himself for a real chewing-out. But she grabbed his hand and said, "Please. I didn't get you back out of hell, just to lose you to a bottle. Or the cold. Or to depression," she said, a lump in her throat.

"If I lost you again, I don't think I could stand it," she declared. Hot tears stood behind her eyes, ready to fall. "Are you getting me? If you kill yourself, I die, too." She stopped there, and let silence fall between them like a cold stone.

The stark presentation of Carrie's reality snapped Quinn out of it. He sat up, looking ashamed and resolute at the same time. "I'm sorry. I really am. And you're right. I just don't know what I'm going to do," he said. "I feel useless."

Carrie stroked his cheek, her face inches from his. "I'm here for you. We'll figure it out. And there's no rush," she said.

After that night, Quinn's drinking had been moderate, his behavior exemplary. Week by week, he fit himself into the family's routine, found ways to be helpful with Franny and the older girls, and tried to make life easier for Carrie and Maggie. While he had no permanent home base, and hadn't for years, he had plenty of savings, and regularly bought groceries, paid utilities, and got shoes and toys for Franny. His drunkenness was non-existent, and his nightmares seemed to recede. The only thing remaining, Carrie felt, was to get him well and truly out of Adal's group. And help him find a new path, something he could live with, be proud of.

That brought her to today, when she was expecting him home with news. It was around half-past six, and Carrie was sniffing the pot of corned beef and cabbage again, and pulling bread out of the oven. The front door to Maggie's cheerful home swung open, and a garrulous voice called from the foyer. "Hey, ladies," Quinn said, sounding energetic.

"Peter Quinn, I presume," Maggie called from the dining room. "Take your shoes off!"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, peeking his head around corner. Carrie walked to him, and they embraced. Oh, God, he felt so good. Every day was like getting him back that first time. He bent and kissed her briefly, then stepped back to take off and hang up his trenchcoat.

"Lookin' sharp," Carrie said.

"It's all for you, babe," Quinn answered, sneaking a peek at her out of the corner of his eye.

Carrie's voice dropped. "How'd it go," she said softly. "Are you…"

Out of the pocket of the trenchcoat, Quinn pulled a windowed envelope with printed paper inside. He snapped it full length between his hands, and said, "It's a done deal." From the envelope, he removed his dismissal papers, along with a final paycheck, including danger bonus. It was over.

Her eyes crinkled cheerfully. She went to him and put her arms around him. He smiled. "I hope you don't regret it, Carrie," he said, wistfully. "You're now shacking up with an unemployed man." He kissed the top of her head, enjoying the way her head fit right beneath his chin.

She smiled up at him. "It's ok. You've got a sugar Mama. Why don't you wash up, and come eat? Maggie made corned beef, to celebrate."

Reaching into the other pocket of his trench, Quinn pulled out a small bottle of Tullamore Dew. "For a toast," he said, handing it to Carrie. He sniffed the air, and smiled.

"God, that smells good. I can't wait," he said.


	3. Chapter 3

Carrie and Quinn snuggled on the couch, long after everyone else had gone to bed. It had been the best of evenings, resplendent with feeling, filled with laughter and affection.

They had all enjoyed the celebratory Irish meal Maggie had made, and Bill, home so seldom, enjoyed leading the toasts. At the end of the evening, Josie and Ruby had shyly brought out a strawberry cheesecake they had made. It was just a no-cook cheesecake, the kind any child could make with cold milk and a wire whisk, but they had been very proud. They had presented it to Quinn, and having set it down, giggled and smiled to each other like teenagers.

"Thanks, girls," Maggie had said, "It's as pretty as a birthday cake." In a way it was, Maggie had thought. Carrie had cut thin slices, since they were all so full from the main meal. Afterwards, Maggie and Bill had shown both girls upstairs for pajamas and toothbrushing. Franny had sat on Quinn's lap for the dessert course, and he alternatively fed himself bites with a fork, while cutting small pieces for Franny, letting her shovel them in herself.

"Girlfriend has an appetite for sweets," Maggie observed, smiling at the child's strawberry-smeared face and three-tooth grin. Franny liked Quinn, Mommy was here, and the dessert was to die for, so what was not to grin about? After Franny was full, Carrie got to her feet, scooping the girl off Quinn's lap and into her arms.

"I should wash off all the smoodge," Carrie said, "and get her in a sleeper."

Maggie had just started the dishwasher, but turned, drying her hands, to say, "Oh, no, you two stay and enjoy. I'll bathe Miss Thing and get her down to sleep with Love Bunny." Carrie handed her over, and kissed the drowsy, slobbery toddler goodnight. Quinn squeezed the child's foot, smiling up at her. Franny gave him a gap-toothed grin and declared, "Gah!" So much for vocabulary explosion, Carrie thought, laughing inwardly.

"Good night, sweetheart," Carrie said. Maggie took the child upstairs, and soon the sound of a shutting door and a bathtub filling indicated that general privacy could be expected.

Quinn piled the last of the dishes in the sink, and Carrie wiped the counter and tables. Finally finishing the washing up, Quinn and Carrie embraced and kissed briefly, in front of the kitchen window. Overheard from upstairs, the sound of Josie and Ruby tittering, changing clothes, and brushing teeth. Quinn rested in Carrie's arms, her hands pressed steadfastly into the small of his back. Her fragrant hair was under his nose, and her small frame leaned into him, trusting and diminutive. The kindness, acceptance, and generosity of the family had been more than he'd had a right to expect. And in Carrie's welcoming embrace, Quinn felt something he had never expected to feel, maybe ever: he felt at home.

"Let's go sit," he said, and brought along the Tullamore Dew. Having been shared 4 ways, the small bottle was nearly empty. But there was one good knock left for both of them, and Carrie shared it out into some of Maggie's crystal lowball glasses. They went together, without speaking, to the shelf of Jazz albums, the stellar and sometimes obscure collection that had been Frank's. Sitting side by side, they started to peruse, and then Quinn slid farther down to the end – to the small collection of classical albums that her father had left. They were very fine recordings, and having been Franks' second-favorite genre, they were in lovely condition.

Carrie scootched down to sit next to Quinn, who sat squarely in front of the Beethoven box sets. He studied, seeming to look for something.

"Quinn," she said, curious, "Do you know this music?"

He looked, and thought a moment, running a shapely finger down the spines of the vinyl sleeves. "Yeah, I know some of it. Some of it really well, actually."

"Wow," Carrie said, raising her eyebrows, "No kidding. I never took you for the type."

Quinn turned and fixed her with a sober look. "You never took me for any type, did you?"

She had the good grace to look ashamed. "No, I guess I didn't. For many years, we were all business, weren't we?" Quinn pulled out a record album and began to study the cover.

"Yes," he said laconically. "We were. And what a waste."

"You think?" Carrie said, stretching out full length on the floor, on her side with her head resting on a hand above a bent elbow. Christ, Quinn thought, even in her Ann Taylor loft pantsuit, she looks like Veronica Lake.

"Yeah, I _think_," he said. He queued up a record on Frank's ancient turntable, and carefully set down the needle. "I should have been playing beautiful music for you, sharing the books I love. And the poetry. And sharing myself, fucking lonely bastard that I was," he said, thinking of an empty tuna can, discarded in a Virginia recycling bin. "I should have been removing your undies with my teeth, is what I should have been doing."

He sat again, cross-legged, next to Carrie on the floor. He said nothing at all for a minute, while the music started quietly. Then he looked at her, gray eyes containing a blizzard of feeling, ready to offload their howling wind into her soul.

"So much wasted time," he said, simply. She nodded, and they reached for each other's hands as the music started.

"What is this?" she asked, looking at the box front. A white-haired man sat at a piano, but this defined so many classical album covers, she couldn't place it.

"It's Beethoven," Quinn said, sipping his whiskey. He pulled himself up cross legged, and regarded her. "It's a Piano Concerto. You know what that is?"

"Um," Carrie confessed, "I guess I inferred what it is, orchestra with a piano solo, right? Or something."

"That's right," Quinn said. "This is the C minor." He reached for her hand, pulled it close. She had to lay on her back, because his pull had removed her head support. He brought her palm to his mouth, and kissed it. Tongued it.

"The C minor," he continued. "First movement. See how much it sounds like Mozart?" Quinn asked.

Carrie was fixated on his eyes, his chest rising and falling, the lean and long lines of his folded thighs, his sculpted cheekbones. "I hadn't noticed," she said.

"I'll have to educate you, then," Quinn said.

He got to his feet, pulling her to her feet as well, bringing her into the circle of his arms, and pressing her tight enough around her torso to make it slightly difficult for her to breathe. She laughed lightly, as he steered her to the couch, where they fell into an easy embrace, the music sounding around them.

"How do you know so much about Classical music?" she asked, more perplexed than ever.

He was spooned behind her on the couch, his arms around her rib cage, one of his hands clutching both her wrists across her belly in a restraint that she found intensely erotic, as he pressed her belly and ass into his groin, made her feel imprisoned by his strength. He started a languorous tour of the back of her neck, with his lips, and whispered lighthearted musical facts into her hair. He unbuttoned her blouse, with his free hand, slowly, like it was a second thought.

"It's middle period Beethoven," he said, sucking on the skin below her ear. "del Pueyo plays the Beethoven cadenza, a bit too fast for my taste," he said. Quinn's fingers went to Carrie's navel and started drawing torpid circles there. "But he's altogether a sensitive performer, and I think he gets it. You know?" By now, Carrie was almost in a delirium of desire, and wanted nothing more than to be taken upstairs to be shown the rest of Quinn's musical knowledge, in as unhurried a fashion as possible. As he mentioned, they had wasted so much time.

But first, she had to know.

"Quinn, where the fuck did you learn so much about classical music?" She turned and fixed him with her gaze, despite his slight discomfort and the slackening of the erotic mood.

He sighed. "There was a woman. In Aarhus, Denmark. In 2009. She was a musicologist. I got mixed up with her after a blown asset came calling and I ended up at a random address, looking for cover."

"Jesus, Quinn," Carrie said, more astonished than jealous. "What a life you've had. How long did you stay with her?"

"Two weeks. Until the heat lifted. I'm sorry to even tell you, Carrie. But you asked."

"Do I even want to know her name, Quinn?" Carrie asked. They had both had lovers, and she was glad to learn something, anything, about her mysterious Quinn. But the green-eyed monster was close these days, since she felt like they were moving into something exclusive, something permanent.

Quinn sighed. What was the point of lying?

"Her name was Freja," he said. "And she was five foot four, and about 25 pounds overweight. After I left, I never contacted her again. She made it clear that I seemed too hot to handle, and that she was happy with a brief encounter. But, from her, I got Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart, and so…" he trailed off. "I am glad to share those things with you, Carrie. I've been saving it all up for you. All the literature," he said, grabbing her hand again. "All the music," he said, kissing her palm, mouth open. "And, all the poetry." He kissed her open mouthed, and they lay back down, the music a soft counterpoint to the sighs of her surrender.

She snuggled into him. "I trust you, Quinn. We've been through too much. I shouldn't even ask, but I get curious. How little I know you, and how much there is to find out."

He shrugged. He pulled her closer. "I'm yours. You have every right to ask, and all the time in the world to listen."

They sat up together, heading for bed, and Carrie yawned. When she took her hand down from her mouth, Quinn put a folded piece of paper into it.

"I want you to look at this," he said. He sounded nervous, much more so than when he mentioned the Danish girlfriend.

Carrie opened the folded paper, and saw an MLS listing. A 4 bedroom home in Vienna, just over 3,100 square feet. 3 baths, on almost 2 acres, in great condition.

"Quinn, this is a beautiful home. Why are you showing it to me?" she asked.

"You like it?" he said, sounding apprehensive again.

No fool, she looked at his face, then at the realtor's listing, then at his face again. His gray eyes hung on her every expression, pensive, but heated. He looked as aroused as he had the night he had kissed her outside his new truck, the night of Frank's funeral – so anxious for any affirmation, questing for her affection, and ready to dive right in at the slightest indication that she was ready for him.

"A house, well, that's a big purchase, Quinn," she said carefully. "I'd have to see it, of course."

"Of course," he said. "And what else?"

"Well," Carrie continued, "Look at the asking price. This is Virginia. And this is a huge home on a big lot. Looks like it's in great shape, too, recent remodel and all that. The owners are asking $825,000.00, that's not exactly chump change. I guess if someone were to bargain, they might get them down to 750K," Carrie finished.

"Carrie," Quinn said, calmingly, "I have been saving my danger bonuses for 11 years. Except for a truck, clothes, and rent on the odd apartment, I have bought nothing," he said.

She waited, looking at him. "What I'm trying to say is, I can pay cash for that house, tomorrow, Carrie."

Her eyes got bigger. Her hands, slightly slick with sweat, curled into his. They both sat up as the Beethoven sounded around them, silky and urbane.  
>Carrie's stomach tightened, and her lifelong fear of commitment reared up. "Quinn," she said, "I don't know.".<p>

Quinn sat all the way up, and sat back, leaning into Maggie's couch for support. He held her hands in his lap, resolutely.

"Your family has been more than kind. But I can't live here forever. I have the funds to buy a decent home for myself. It's in a good school district. And it's big enough for you, me and Franny. I don't even know where I'm going to work next week. And I'm not expecting you to move in immediately, or make any irrevocable decision, Carrie. But listen to me – I've waited so long to share my life with you. And I'm going to buy a place, cash on the barrelhead, where we can do that. Whether or not you move in, is up to you." He looked at her solemnly, his thumbs stroking her palms.

"Come look at it with me, tomorrow. See if you like it. If you do, I'll buy it. And we can decide what to do from there."

She thought of so many things to say, so many rushing ideas, words and notions. Will you love me? Will we always be together? Do you love Franny? Do you want more babies? What about my work, what about yours?

But Carrie had lived through the most painful, longest period of waiting that a person could imagine, that last summer and fall when she thought Quinn had died, or was missing for good. And when she finally opened her mouth, she believed she said the right thing.

"I'll be happy to look at this house with you. Tomorrow, so call the realtor. But please, Quinn, you have to promise me something."

He looked so excited, the sparkle in his eyes showed gratitude that she'd even consider it. He was delighted beyond words, and his body and face showed it. "What, Carrie? Anything."

"The master bedroom? We need to make sure it's soundproof," she said. She grinned at him, and reached a slender hand to touch the crotch of his pants, to show what she meant. As if there had been a doubt.

Quinn stood up, and with a few rapid motions, pulled Carrie into his arms, and lifted her off her feet. Carrying her upstairs like a bride, beaming from ear to ear, he whispered into her ear, "Until then, I have a few covert methods to teach you," he said, his rough voice wicked in the blue darkness of the upstairs.

He shut the door to their room with his back, and laid her on the bed.

"Show me," she said.


	4. Chapter 4

Lying on her bed, Carrie's eyes searched for Quinn, as they were still unused to the dark. She lay silently, listening to Peter move to the dresser near the window, where momentarily, he found a matchbook and lit a single candle. His forehead and cheekbones were thrown into relief by the yellow glow, and turning to look at her, he slowly began to undress.

By now, they were used to being quiet during lovemaking, and she had found that the silent, almost secretive nature of their nighttime eros enhanced their deepening connection. Something about the quiet and dark had also brought out a mad romantic in Quinn, his whispers of love seeming to pour from some deep well of yearning, a well that had been stoppered up all the long months and years that he had loved her in secret. The long wait to have her, his agony in the dark desert, gutshot and lost, the devastation of her grief, and the torture of nearly losing him, all these things together seemed to make him want to bring them both the utmost pleasure, at every opportunity. Physical, mental and spiritual pleasure, total erotic indulgence, he created, to compensate for all the pain that they had suffered.

In her memory, Quinn had been a tense and brusque individual, effective and efficient, serious, and without a spare word. Given that, Quinn's behavior as her lover was nothing short of a revelation. Now that he knew he was loved, he suddenly couldn't give her enough of himself. His desire to please brought variety to their lovemaking, but a terribly sentimental streak wound a common thread through all their nighttime carnality, even when he was dominant, almost brutal. It seemed that possessing her was a way for him to come into himself, they both being made whole by the joining.

He now stood completely naked, hard cock at the ready. Moving as slowly as a panther getting ready to strike, he walked towards the bed.

Quinn began to undress Carrie, with great care and slowness. He remained completely silent, but his intense gaze roved over her, enjoying every square inch of white skin that was revealed. Her arms, her legs, her feet, her neck, each was stroked in turn, as if Quinn's intention was to stimulate every square inch of her, every nerve ending. She lay completely passive and obedient to his direction, and after some minutes of slow stripping, he pulled her panties off over her ankles. He admired her hairless pussy – at his urging, she had gotten a Brazilian a few days prior. It was not something she'd ever done before, and truthfully, not an experience she cared to repeat, in terms of discomfort. But he looked so excited, so desirous of her smoothness, that she decided it was worth it.

He rolled her onto her stomach on the bed, she, limp as a doll, letting him seduce her, arrange her body to his liking. He leaned over, his heat coming close, his body hair tickling her back and bottom. "It's a good night for a massage," he whispered. She shivered; his voice in her ear was controlled, but the control covered an urgency that belied his calm.

He sat next to her nakedness, and started like any other massage therapist, on Carrie's neck and shoulders. His hands felt huge, and strong, so tender when he wished them to be, so powerful when needed. His fingers dug into the knots between her shoulder blades, began to knead them, rub them out. He squeezed the sides of her neck, stroked up and down her spine, and kneaded down the lengths of her arms. She sighed with contentment, awash in relaxation. It was her nature to be on her guard, to be tense. To be alert and ready to react. Quinn's presence in her life had always provided her some measure of comfort and peace, even long before, when they were only workmates. But back in Islamabad, she never could have imagined the degree of comfort and safety she'd feel in his intimate presence, how tranquil she could feel. Without his declaring it, she knew that her proximity did the same thing for him. His caressing fingers moved up into her hair, pressing deep into the scalp, combing her hair upwards and causing Carrie to moan in assent. His fingers moved around her ears, back into her hair, generating delicious friction. "Oh, God, that's good," she whispered. She had no idea what a huge erogenous zone her head was, until Quinn had first plunged his hands into her hair. He continued, patiently, and she turned her head to the other side, so he could cover all of her scalp. He moved back down to her arms, kneading until she was covered with goosebumps.

Touching her must have been unbearably arousing, as his breath was coming faster, she could feel it hot on her back. Quinn's hands changed, became less tender, and more fierce. They moved to her buttocks, and his massage started to center around her upper thighs, bottom, and move between her legs, then out and around her bum. He didn't dip into her pussy yet, but came tantalizingly close. She opened her eyes in the candlelight, her eyelids flickered, and she closed them again. He had massaged her nearly into a coma, she was half-asleep, and halfway to orgasm, almost dripping onto the bed with the juices of her excitement. She could smell herself and knew Quinn could smell her too – she wondered how long he could hold onto his control, while smelling her arousal and fondling her silky skin like this.

Finally, Quinn had as much as he could bear of companionable massage, and slid his left hand up Carrie's spine, to lock on the back of her neck. She had rolled slightly onto her side, and Quinn pressed her upper leg forward, slightly bending the knee, to get access to her cunt. His right hand slipped between her legs, and with flat fingers, he covered her entire pubis with a firm hand, massaging her from behind. The lack of any pubic hair intensified the sensations, and she gasped. His left hand squeezed her neck firmly, controlling her, while his right hand started to circle and kindle her already-slippery cunt. She sighed with assent, thrusting her ass back at him. He leaned into her ear, began to pour out his feelings, voice shaking, his erotic murmurs bringing her closer and closer to the edge.

"You have no idea how long I've loved you… how much I've wanted you… and what I wanted to do to you, how I wanted to _take_ you, Carrie," his whisper, intense, hot in her ear. "I've wanted to abduct you, to take you away, keep you bound and naked for me, keep you safe and make you mine," he hissed. She tried to shift, just to feel his hand on her neck clinch down and keep her pinned, her submission total. His right hand circled and rubbed. One of his fingers, then two, dipped into her deeply, his index finger still outside, frigging her swollen clit. She rocked back into his hand with her cunt, accepting him.

"I waited for so long. And now, you _are _mine. I'm going to take you, and fuck you, and make you come," he said, almost growling his eager murmur. "Do you understand? I'm going to _possess_ you. Fuck you. Fill you with my seed. Eat your cunt until you scream, make you come so hard you need a gag, or you'll frighten the neighbors…" She could hear the smile in his voice, wicked, he was. She moaned, tried to writhe. But he contained her, loomed over her, his size and weight superior, his roiled lust at a high plateau. Breathless now between stark phrases of jealous passion, he uttered excitedly, "So beautiful. You'll be mine. I want to keep you naked, make you kneel for me, suck my cock." His fingers penetrated her, his hand worked her, and he knew she was close, could feel it in her wetness, her breathing, her surrender. He withdrew his hands, and Carrie inhaled, sharply. He flipped on his back, and pulled her on top of him, facing up. Spreading her legs wide with his, he drove her fragile form down on his prick, entering and filling her. She took a deep breath to cry out, but his left hand quickly came up, and he covered her mouth, sealing in her helpless wail, her breath coming fast and hard through her nostrils, the only sound emerging, a whimper of surrender. With his right hand, he reached down to her bald cunt, frigged her clit ruthlessly, firmly, in rhythmic circles. He began to thrust his cock in time, finding her wet, tight and yearning to accommodate him. Quinn's whispers went on, as he prevented Carrie's cries.

"I want you like this, naked for me," he gasped. "I want you on top; I want you to fuck me. I want you to give yourself to me. Only me." His impassioned fucking, fervent love-words, and ruthless fingers brought her to orgasm, her body spasming on top of Quinn, legs spread, eyes rolled back, head lolling over his shoulder, her hands clutching helplessly at the bedsheets. The apex of her pleasure was so extreme that she lost herself, felt as if she was plummeting out of her body, only the secure bulk of Quinn's body keeping her from ceasing to be. If he had not been stopping her shriek with his hand, she would have screamed the house down. Her pussy squeezed Quinn's prick and brought him along, his seed bursting into her, to fill her up, possessing her as he had promised. He sighed into her hair, into her ear, overwhelmed, his moans, pure feeling, and no words left. Their breathing slackened, became less ragged, and they began their descent.

Quinn relaxed his hand, and released Carrie's mouth. He turned them both on their side, and his prick slipped out. She was nearly asleep already, or perhaps she had fainted. It made no difference. He got up, and blew out the candle. Her body was sheened in a light sweat, and her lips were swollen and slightly open, her lids bluish with exhaustion. His heart nearly ruptured with the beauty and vulnerability of her sleeping form. He swallowed around a lump in his throat. He felt that at that moment, he would die to protect her, kill to be with her. His love for her expanded, so enormous, that it threatened to explode his heart, and crack his world in two like a china plate. Climbing back onto the bed, drawing close behind Carrie's slumbering form, he reached behind them, grabbed the bedclothes, and folded the softness over them both. He managed to stay conscious long enough to kiss her ear, whisper one last phrase of tenderness, and then sleep took Quinn, too.

Darkness and softness cradled them both; the suburban home a hush of safety around the sleeping lovers. That night, both of their dreams were sweet.


	5. Chapter 5

The agent turned the key in the front door of the secluded Red Brick home, and Carrie pushed Franny over the threshold in her stroller. The child threw her Love Bunny over the side again, a game she played with Mommy, and Peter picked Bunny up without a word.

"Welcome," said the agent, "to one of the best kept secrets the neighborhood." She pushed her jeweled cat's eye readers up onto her nose, and her upper arm wobbled generously as she gestured to the front room of the quiet suburban living room.

"4 bedrooms, 3 baths, and plenty of room for a growing family, plus guests, Mrs…?" the agent paused, wanting to hear the prospective buyers speak. Quinn spoke for her.

"Mrs. Quinn," he said, handing Love Bunny back to Franny. Carrie shot him a look, not quite a look of death, but almost. Peter shrugged.

"Can we see the kitchen?" she asked, by way of diversion. They followed the agent's bottle-calves in their patent-leather pumps into the newly remodeled kitchen.

"Every single room in this home has been remodeled, with the most modern appliances, hardwood floors, a new furnace, and 50-year shingles on the roof," she said, motioning expansively to the sub-zero fridge, the stainless-steel gas range with the black-lacquer hood.

Quinn, who had rarely spent more than 50 days at any single dwelling, whistled appreciatively. "Wow," was all he could come up with.

"I'll give you some time to look around the downstairs," said the agent. She walked off to a discreet distance, while Carrie and Quinn looked around.

"We should have brought Maggie," Carrie said, worriedly. "I know nothing about this kind of shit."

"Neither do I. But we can learn fast. And if you like it, that's good enough for me," he said.

They rolled Franny back into the living room, which had a huge picture window overlooking the yard. The living room had a gorgeous new hardwood floor and an enormous brick fireplace, which the previous owners had painted white.

"Nice fireplace," Carrie said. "I've never had one."

"I can imagine… well, you know what I'm thinking," Quinn said, daring to smooth a hand over her buttock. She swatted it away.

"Not now," she smiled. He was acting like a normal newlywed, had even referred to her as Mrs. Quinn. Had he lost his mind? Or, maybe, she thought, found it?

She tried to change the subject a bit, looking out over the yard, the pushing the stroller to the back door, and looking over the large, open deck at the tree-filled back yard, a rustic and peaceful scene, a great place for barbecues, late night fire-pit chats, and romantic rambles. "It reminds me of the cabin, Quinn," she said, a lump in her throat.

He only said, "I hope that's a good thing,"

Carrie smiled, looked down at Franny's bright head. "Lots of good memories there," she said. "It's a good thing."

He thought heatedly, for a moment, of Brody, and wondered if that's what she meant. Then she said, "Dad taught us to play Go Fish on the cabin deck. And there was a place to really fish. And he taught us how to make a campfire there. It was a great place to be a kid," she finished. When she looked at Quinn, she had a tear in her eye, and he could see that whatever part of her memory was taken up with Brody, it wasn't front of mind right now.

The realtor took them to the master bedroom, showed them the newly refitted bathrooms, the second and third bedrooms, and showed off the granite countertops in the kitchen at the last, assuming that the lady of the house would be most concerned with how the meals would be cooked. If she only knew, Carrie was more familiar with a microwave oven than most of the other kitchen appliances. Oh well, what the realtor, Miss "Call me Betty" didn't know, wouldn't hurt her.

Finally, she left them alone, to look around the house, and think it over. A good realtor knows when to answer questions, and when to disappear.

They pushed the stroller back inside the master bedroom, where Franny gurfled and stuck her thumb in. Another ten minutes of this boredom, and she'd be sound asleep.

"Quinn, this bedroom is nothing like soundproof," she said, smiling wickedly at him.

Quinn smiled lopsidedly, rubbed the side of his abdomen. His healing wound still caused him discomfort when he climbed stairs. It might have been worse than he thought, but he hadn't complained or worried Carrie about it. "We can soundproof Franny's room instead. It'd be easier," he said, gave her a significant look. "Besides, you know how hard little kids sleep. And there's always that downstairs bathroom…"

"Stop," she laughed. They looked out the bedroom window, at the green, the quiet, the March wind soughing through the leafless trees, trying to picture the place in summer. Trying to picture the place with them in it, a family. A family at peace, without someone heading off to literal war at least once a month. She still couldn't see what it looked like. The entire previous 8 weeks had seemed like a divine vacation from their previous lives, the peace, the safety, the normalcy, the ecstatic sex, everything. Some part of her couldn't believe it would last. She was worried that any commentary on it might break the spell, and so she kept her peace.

"One thing confuses me, though," she said.

"What's that?" he asked.

"I don't see why you picked a place with so much green space around it. Seems, I don't know, not very defensible." She knew Quinn, and even in the safest part of the USA he'd probably be figuring out how to set up marksman's posts or something, in case of an assault on the family.

"Oh," he said, comfortably, "I was here last week. Without Betty. I scoped all that out one night. I know exactly where I'm putting the perimeter alarms and the motion detectors. Not a squirrel will step foot over the property line without my knowing it. And the third bedroom will have my gun cabinet. Plus, we're getting a dog," he said.

"We are, huh?" she said, amused. So now they were a "we."

He had the good manners to look a little humbled. "I mean, I will be getting a dog. If I buy the place," he said. He looked at her, doglike himself, loyal, loving, and hopeful.

Carrie's heart swelled. She wanted so much for them, she wanted everything, after the many years of misery, loneliness, suffering, and loss, God knew they deserved a little happiness. But she wasn't going to throw herself at it, or him. It had to be a step at a time, for both of them.

"It's a great house," she said. "I would be happy to live here, someday. But you're buying it, and it has to be up to you, Quinn," she said.

"Someday?" he said, his eyes deflated.

Carrie put her hand on his arm, reached in, and put a kiss in the hollow of his neck, right below his ear. "Someday soon," she said. "Just give me a few weeks to breathe."

Quinn smiled. "I'll get the realtor," he said.

Carrie stopped him with a tight grip on his elbow. "Wait, there's one thing. I was talking to Bill and Maggie, and…" his eyebrows raised quizzically.

Carrie finished, "Don't pay cash for the house. Put just enough down so that you don't have to take out a Jumbo loan," she explained.

Quinn, ever the tenant of shitty apartments and furnished condos, said, "Jumbo loan?"

"Maggie can explain it tonight. Just, if you want to talk finance, let's save some of your big nest egg back. You might need your other savings for something else. I have an idea," she said.

Franny squawked, indicating lunch time had arrived. "OK, Carrie," Quinn said. "I'm ready to listen."

Betty reappeared in the room, and said, "OK, young people, what do we think?"

Quinn answered for them. "We like it, but we need to talk it over. Can we call you?"

The realtor, used to these kinds of responses, assured them that this was fine, and showing them back out of the home and to Carrie's SUV, gave the usual warning that several other couples were supposed to look at the house this week.

Quinn put on his shades, and smiled at her. "I'm sure we'll be in touch very soon. Thanks." He shook her hand, and accepted her business card.

Nobody who had been through what they had been through in Pakistan, Turkey or anywhere else could be hurried or intimidated by a real estate agent. Carrie buckled Franny into her car seat, and folded the stroller into the back. She jumped into the passenger seat and fastened her seat belt.

Quinn rolled down the drive and turned onto the parkway, and asked Carrie, "OK, so what did you really think?"

"I think I need a club sandwich. And I think Franny needs a dish of chicken nuggets and some applesauce," she said.

"And?" he insisted.

"And," she said, "I think I love you."

Behind his dark shades, Quinn smiled a Terminator smile.


	6. Chapter 6

Quinn, Maggie and Carrie sat at the dining room table that night, after the dishes had been cleared away. Visiting a potential home that day had raised a multitude of questions. Maggie had one of Bill's legal pads, and was doing her level best to explain the process of home-buying to Quinn. She knew he was a clever guy, but it was a complicated process. The first time anyone went through it, it was intimidating. There were lots of ways to make mistakes, and mortgage companies don't care one iota about sticking a consumer with a less-than-advantageous mortgage. And neither Quinn nor Carrie had been through any of it, or even heard of Mortgage Insurance, or Fannie Mae. Maggie had drawn a simple flow chart, which Carrie was peering at as well.

"The first thing you do, is get pre-approved for a mortgage," Maggie said.

"That sounds redundant," said Quinn.

"It is," she agreed, "but that's what lets loan companies know of your interest, lets them check your credit score, and allows you to _really_ shop for a mortgage."

Carrie said, "He tried that, one of those online things where you can get pre-approved, but he got turned down."

Maggie frowned. "Is there some bad debt in your past, Peter?" she asked.

He shrugged. "There's _no_ debt. I don't think I even have a credit rating. Maybe that's why I got turned down?" he wondered aloud. Maggie just looked at him. "All my life, it's been cash-and-carry. I've never had a credit card. In my legal name," he gulped. Carrie looked sideways at him, but let it slide.

"No credit card? Really? What about a bank account?" she asked.

"Bank account? Oh, that I've got. I set one up when I started the Agency, and my paychecks have been going there ever since. Direct deposit. Regular pay, danger bonuses, combat pay, everything. Wells Fargo," he finished.

"Well," said Maggie, "If it's not being too personal, how much is in there? Carrie mentioned you wanted to pay cash for the house," she said, eyebrows raised.

He took a sip of beer, looked sideways out the kitchen window, then down. From under the table, he pulled an accordion style file folder, labeled "P Quinn Documents" on the side, in his diagonal scribble. Reaching inside, he pulled out a large Wells Fargo envelope that held what looked like some kind of yearly statement.

"It's personal. But that's ok. This is the statement that came while I was recovering in the hospital in Iskenderun," he said. "There's an investment counselor handling most of it, but some of it is just in a savings account." He pulled the summary page out, and slid it across the table to Carrie and Maggie, a mildly embarrassed flush entering his cheeks.

Carrie looked at the bottom line, and her eyes got wide. Maggie let out a low whistle.

"Jesus Christ, Quinn, when were you going to tell me you were worth 1.9 million dollars?" she squawked.

"I was afraid you'd only want me for my money," he countered dryly.

"Well," Maggie said, "You _could_ pay cash for the house," she said. "It's not that uncommon, especially in hot markets where nice homes move fast, and a cash offer certainly moves the process along," she finished uncertainly.

Carrie was still eyeing Quinn, with a greater degree of unease. "I'm looking forward to hearing how you managed to save that much in a C.I.A. career about as long as mine," she said.

Maggie cleared her throat and stood up.

"I'm going to check on Franny, then I'm going into my room to catch up on email. I think you two need to talk privately," Maggie said. Excusing herself discreetly, she patted Carrie's shoulder as she left the kitchen and went upstairs.

Quinn sighed. He watched Maggie's back recede up the staircase, then looked at Carrie, and held her gaze. "First of all, I was in the Agency two years longer than you," he started.

"Big deal," she said. "I know what my paycheck was, and I know that I never managed to save anything like this, and I won't for another 10 or 15 years. Even if I lived like a monk."

"Carrie, there's two parts to the answer," he said, patiently. "One part I think you understand. I've never owned a home, I've had two or three vehicles in my life, and other than the odd gift and child support, I've never purchased anything substantial in my life," he said.

Carrie sniffed. He never mentioned child support, but in a way she was glad to hear him say it out loud. He had never mentioned his son, now 6 years old, even once since returning from Syria that winter.

"I hadn't thought of it," she said. "Do you still pay child support?" she asked, wondering even as she said it, if it was any of her business. She guessed it was.

"No," Quinn said. "In 2008, Julia got promoted to detective. She said she wanted to remarry, and that she didn't need my money, or reminders of me, every month." He stated it flatly, and after a moment, looked back out the window and sipped his beer again. When he looked back at her, she was staring intently at his profile, eyes sympathetic.

"OK, maybe some other time, you can tell me more. If you want to," she said. "But I'm still not catching how you managed to save this much money. I mean, I never lived large, because I was hardly ever home. But I managed to spend more than half of what I earned, on the condo, furniture, doctor's bills, food, you know? Living expenses," she finished.

"Yeah, living expenses imply that the person is doing some living. But you know there were months where I ate out of a can, slept on couches, and only spent enough money to pay a very basic rent. You know the place I was staying in right before we went to Pakistan?"

"Sure," she said. "I remember. The place you were living at when I bailed you out of jail last year."

He reached out, grabbed her hand and held it. If he had his way, she'd never find out about his brief affair with the apartment manager, which had led to the fit of rage in which he'd almost killed a couple of rude jerks in a diner. 2nd degree assault and battery, and he's lucky Edie had pulled him off, or it might have ended up as a homicide charge. He looked at the tabletop, swallowing these discomfiting memories. "Yeah, that's the place. Know how much I paid for 6 months there?"

"How much?"

"2400 dollars. Know how much I earned in the same period?"

"I can guess, but maybe I'm way off. Because, this," she said again, taking her hand out of his, and pointing at the bottom line on the Wells Fargo document again.

"OK," he sighed. "You understand part of it. Where the bulk of the money came from is sort of classified."

Carrie rolled her eyes. "Oh, of course," she said.

"It _is_ classified. I can try to tell you some of it, talk around it, if I can redact enough information to keep with my agreement with Adal's group and the Agency. I know what I agreed to, and I can't even tell _you_ most of this stuff," he said.

"Quinn. I know you what you used to do," she said. "Is there anything you _can_ tell me?"

"Carrie, if I tell you a little story I saw on the news, can you fill in the blanks?"

She looked at him astutely. It was one way to tell someone things, without telling them.

"Sure. I'm Agency, I can infer a full house from a single card," she said.

That made Quinn smile.

"OK," he said. "Remember a little news story from 2005? About Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. This would have been in May."

"Not right off," she said. "But go on."

"Well, there was a rumor that someone, most likely US Forces, had almost gotten that fucker. The local radical Islamic papers were saying that he had been gravely wounded, and that Al-Qaeda had removed him to a foreign country with a better hospital, for treatment. Rumor had it that he was set up in a triangulation of crossfire, and that a sniper with a high-powered rifle, stationed at the highest point in the ambush, had delivered the bullet that injured him. These Iraqi rags also said that the faithful should pray for his health, do you remember any of this?" Quinn asked.

Carrie had been watching Quinn's eyes during the story, then looked down at his hands, one loosely ringing the beer glass, one open on the bank statement.

"Al-Zarqawi survived that attack, unfortunately," Quinn stated.

"Yes, he did," Carrie finished for him, because the rest of the story was known chapter and verse by all case officers, and most of the general public. "He survived until 2006, when he was in a safehouse North of Baqubah, and a drone strike took him out," she said.

"Along with a few wives and most of his goats, yes. And during that year, someone worked the intel, got some of the senior leadership of Al-Qaeda in Iraq to give up al-Zarqawi's location at that safehouse. That was also, part of," he said, looking down and thinking, "Part of this news story I read." He looked at her significantly. "That's all I can tell you, Carrie."

She looked at Quinn, reached back out for his hand. "I see," she said. "I'm glad you, um, told me what you read on the news." He squeezed her hand briefly, then let go.

"Yeah," he said. He picked up the bank statement, put it away, and then picked up his beer and drained it. Standing up, he held his hand back out to her. "Ready for bed?"

She gave him a sly smile. "I guess," she said, "but I was thinking I'd take a bath first."

"Oh, yeah," Quinn smiled. "In that bathroom where I put the new lock on the door?"

"I think everyone's asleep, or close to it," she said.

"God, I will be so glad when we don't have to sneak around anymore," Quinn whispered into her ear, as they started up the stairs, the file folder under his arm.

"I don't think we sneak around now," she said back in his ear, his whisper raising goosebumps on his neck.

They reached her room, went inside and closed the door. He took her in his arms. "You know what I mean," he said, whispering again. "I want to make you scream. But I can't," he complained. His lips began a slow transit from her earlobe down to the neck of her blouse.

"Quinn," Carrie gasped, realizing she was about 2 minutes from not being able to compose a rational thought, "if everything works out the way we want it to, we're going to have plenty of privacy."

"That's what I'm hoping," he said fervently, pulling Carrie's blouse up over her head. "Now get your robe on. I want to wash your hair." Patting her bottom, he began to undress himself.


	7. Chapter 7

Dinner was over, the house was quiet, and Carrie and Quinn said goodnight to everyone after Franny was asleep. There had been an feeling of disquiet in the air all evening, and both Carrie and Quinn sensed it. Without speaking, Carrie grabbed Quinn's hand, and pulled him back to the three-season room that faced out over Maggie's back yard. She wanted to talk, and dispel the strange feeling, if she could.

"Carrie, it's cold out here," Quinn observed, closing the glass door behind him.

"Here, get under this blanket with me," she said, holding up piece of thick polarfleece.

"Now you're talking," he said. He settled himself on the couch with her, and Carrie spread the blanket over them both, right up to their chins. Quinn winced, which Carrie had noticed he had been doing at odd moments all week. She stole a glance at his face, but said nothing about it.

They snuggled, and Carrie noticed they could see their breath.

"So, what are we doing out here, instead of going upstairs to a nice warm bed?" Quinn asked.

"Oh," Carrie started uncertainly. "Talking. Maybe answering some questions, if you think you can."

"And you don't want to be overheard, I guess," he said, shivering, and running a hand up and down her arm.

She didn't answer immediately, just sat looking ahead, then down, trying to think of how to start this. Quinn obviously loved her, and he was buying that house, ostensibly for them. He seemed to be picturing them together, as a family, and living something like what they had called "normal life". But there was so much "getting to know you" still to do. And there were so many unanswered questions, about him, about them, about what he thought the future looked like. She needed more clarity, even if she did plan on moving in. It was only fair.

"Quinn," she started finally, "I've been thinking, about what we want to do. Moving in, living together. And, when I think about that, there's some stuff that worries me."

He was snuggled close to her, rubbing her arm up and down, trying to keep them both warm. "Like what?" he said, almost whispering.

She decided to come out with one of the big ones, up front. "Like, Franny," she said.

Quinn looked at Carrie's face, trying to take the temperature of the question. "What about Franny?" he asked. "You know I love the kid."

"I can see that you do," Carrie said. "But when you look at her, do you see Brody? And I worry if that bothers you. And, it makes me wonder if you want children of your own."

Quinn sighed. "I don't know, Carrie," he said, honestly. "Sometimes I think so. Then, sometimes I think about John. I wonder what fucked-up mess I left over there, and I think I don't want to do it again."

Carrie nodded sympathetically. "It's hard," was all she could think to say. John Jr. was not a forbidden topic – in fact, nothing should be, she thought. But they barely spoke about him. And Carrie had no doubt that it bothered Quinn sometimes. He had taken the time to pull her aside when she was pregnant with Franny, and point out that he'd fucked it up. That he hoped she wouldn't.

"I guess it's fair to ask," Quinn said, "About how you feel. If you want more children, or if Franny feels like enough." He waited, breath blowing out white into the frosty air.

"Yeah, turnabout," she said. "I don't know either. After everything we've been through, there are times when I feel like I don't want to share you anymore. With anyone. Then, sometimes, I wonder what he or she would look like. A baby. That came from you, and me," she finished, sounding remotely embarrassed.

"It wouldn't be easy," Quinn observed. "But then, none of this is."

They sat quietly for a period of time. Carrie knew that being in love wasn't the only thing people needed to be happy for the long term. Her father knew that, she and her sister knew that, because when her mother blew town, her father had to pick up all the pieces and be both parents. It had worked out alright, and Frank's love and passion for his daughters had made up in some degree for the broken family her mother left. Thank God Carrie now knew, her mother hadn't left because of her Dad's bipolar disorder, but rather because of her own infidelity. How fucked-up was that, she thought. But still, there were things to consider. She wanted them to start out right, start out clean. Have the best chance of being together, without things become utterly fucked later on, just for lack of someone asking a question. She swallowed, summoned her courage, and asked a big one.

"One of the things I think of," Carrie said, a bit of anxiety in her tone, "is if you'll leave again. It worries me more than anything."

"Leave where?" he said, bemusedly.

"Leave. On a job. Or just leave us, Quinn. You know you've not ever been in this kind of life before. It's boring, frankly," she said honestly. "Normal life – it just goes on every day. You do things that don't seem important. There's no buzz, no kill zone, there's nothing much to get excited about. Until you start to see the small stuff." She leaned away from him, losing some of the heat in the blankets, just to be sure she could see his face. "I'm worried you won't be interested, want this kind of quiet, and someday I'll wake up and you'll just be gone."

He looked at her, frowning. A bleak expression on his face, the stress of his recent job still not completely dissipated, and seeming to look into himself, as he looked straight ahead. For a long time, he didn't answer.

"I can't say what I'll feel in the future. About normal life, about the way it feels. I'll have to get used to it. Like any soldier," he pointed out. He was speaking slowly, picking words carefully. "But I can say one thing. The only sure thing in my life is you, Carrie. How I feel about you. You're the only reason I survived and came home. The only thing I thought about after I left the US, was you. How you were feeling, if you loved me, if I'd live to see your face again. Everything in that letter was true, you know."

Quinn turned from staring off into space, and looked at Carrie intensely. She caught his gaze and looked back, somewhat sadly.

"Is that good enough?" he asked. "I can't guarantee that I, you or anyone else will be happy. All I can do is say that I want to be with you, I want to try. I want to take care of Franny, and try to figure out the rest of my life. I can't be pressured to see beyond that. You know?" Quinn hugged her close to him, shivering.

"It's good enough for me," she said.

"I guess," Quinn said, asking more than telling, "that you don't feel like you're going flake out and leave me, huh." He waited, hoping for the answer.

"No." Carrie said immediately. It was not even a question in her mind, not after everything she'd lived through to get him back. "No, I don't feel like a commitment-o-phobic, not with you. You're not trying to tie me down…"

"Oh, right, we haven't tried that yet. Wait until we have our own place, huh?" Quinn joked, squeezing her bottom.

"_Stop_. Seriously. I feel like I barely got you back. I don't think I want to run away. Not from you, Quinn." Carrie finished, squirming as Quinn's hands started to rove. "One step at a time, right?"

"Right," he said. "Can we go in, Carrie? My hands are freezing, and I'm about to put them somewhere, you know," he smiled.

"Almost," Carrie said. "one more thing. Quinn," she continued. "You know I like my job."

"Yeah, I know," he said. "I don't see you getting out. But where you are, it's not dangerous. And there's almost no travel."

"Yeah, that's the way I see it. And it's a steady income."

"Now, for me to figure out a steady income," Quinn stated, looking nervous. "This is the first time in my life I've not been in school, or employed. It feels funny, and it's only been a few days."

"I have to tell you, I've had an idea. Tomorrow, after work, I may have something to show you," Carrie said. "Now come inside, let's go warm up."

"You're going to leave me in suspense?" he asked, pretending to be incredulous. "You big tease."

Together, they stood up and went back into the warmth of Maggie's house, closing the door tightly behind them.

* * *

><p>The next afternoon, after work, Carrie asked Maggie to give Franny some dinner, and grabbed a sheaf of paper out of her briefcase. "Come with me," she said to Quinn, pointing at his chest. "We have to do a drive-by."<p>

Quinn shrugged at Maggie helplessly, grabbed his jacket and keys, and the two of them set off in his truck. Carrie gave Quinn periodic directions, telling him where to turn for several minutes, until the truck pulled up in front of a small commercial building. The keystone of the building said, "1911", and the general architecture looked like it could have been an old-fashioned General Store. The large, dusty front window held a sign that said, "For Sale or Lease".

"What's this?" Quinn asked, leaning over to eye the place.

"This," Carrie said triumphantly, "is my idea for you."

"OK," Quinn said. "But what are you thinking?"

Carrie reached down, and pulled up a color printout of what looked like an old-west style lettered sign. It had a black background and in white and gold lettering, it said:

PQ Firearms

Pistols – Rifles – Ammo – Accessories

Shooting range – Lessons by appointment only

Quinn studied the printout in Carrie's hands. Then looked up out through the truck window, at the building again.

"This place, huh?" he asked, uncertainly.

"Yeah," Carrie said. "The little place on the right is a tailor shop. But this side has 3,000 square feet, or so. The front half is your gun shop. The back is the small shooting range where you give lessons. You can give group lessons, private lessons, what have you," she said. She slowed down a little, and caught Quinn's gaze.

"You're so good at this stuff, Peter. Why not give it a try?"

"Huh," was all he could think to say. She had done her homework, alright. He was amazed, in some ways, that someone like Carrie would stop and give him any thought at all. Then he looked at her. The look in her eye was almost worshipful. He felt the same way, and wondered if it showed.

"I've never run a business," Quinn said.

"I can help you," Carrie offered. "And it can't be that hard. Lots of people do it. There's no other shop like it in the area."

"Carrie," deadpanned Quinn. "I don't know how you do it."

She smiled. "Do what?"

"Go from the most frustrating person I ever met, to the goddamn best friend I ever had, and back, sometimes on the same day," he said.

"Quinn, maybe I'm not the one who changed," she suggested.

He reached across the truck. His hand swallowed hers up, and he squeezed. There was very little in this life that made sense to him, but loving Carrie was one of the few things that did.

"OK," he said, summoning a tiny smile – the best he could do, really. "Let's call the owner, and we'll see."


End file.
